


take me to the stars

by dnbroughs



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, M/M, RMS Titanic, Suicide Attempt, bev and ben are in their late 30s, bev's from the south, bill eddie and richie are like 22, bill is jack, eddie is italian, eventual reddie, mike is in his 40s, please read the notes, richie is irish, stan is about 19, stan is rose, the titanic au nobody asked for, there's no homophobia in the early 1900s bc i'm gay and i say so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-06-01 01:04:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15131669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dnbroughs/pseuds/dnbroughs
Summary: 'Titanic was called The Ship of Dreams, but to Stan, it ended up being so much more than that. To Stan, Titanic was where he truly learned to live.'orthe stenbrough titanic au





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey hey ! this is an idea i've had in my head for a while and i thought i might as well start writing it while i still have the time. I'm still going to be updating my dirty dancing au but it's taking it's sweet time to write, so keep an eye out for that  
> hope you guys enjoy !

Stanley Uris had lived an extraordinary life. He had lived a long life, unusually long in the eyes of some people, but it had been filled with adventure and passion and unadulterated freedom. Stanley Uris had lived long enough to know when a day was going to be special, when something was going to happen that would leave him speechless, dumbfounded, or completely exhilarated. It was rare, however, for a day to render him victim to all three. Yet, as Stanley Uris got out of bed that muggy July morning, he knew, deep down in his bones, that today was going to be one of those days.

His granddaughter had beaten him to the coffee machine that morning, yet while he would usually moan about her coffee making abilities, he was content to sit at their worn dining table and watch the neighbour’s cat sprawl out in the sunshine in his garden. The rays of the early morning sun wrapped deliciously around his wrists and submerged his ageing hands in a golden haze, highlighting every ridge and every wrinkle and every callous. Stan had never shied away from age, if anything he took it in his stride, yet this day, he felt as if he was twenty again, an undiagnosed dose of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Why, he hadn’t felt this way since…

“ _I've planned this expedition for three years, and we're out here recovering some amazing things- things that will have enormous historical and educational value._ ”

The sound of the television tugged Stan sharply from his thoughts. The crackling TV set was usually a source of background noise in the small household, but the grainy image of a burly man on the deck of a ship pulled Stan out of his seat and closer towards the screen.

“Easy there, pop.” Emily called from the kitchen, quickly rushing to Stan’s side, linking her arm through his to keep him standing steady.

He shoots her a thankful smile, covering her hand that was resting in the crutch of his elbow. “Turn that up please dear.”

Emily shot her grandfather a curious look before grabbing the remote from a cluttered side table and turning up the volume of the television, glancing over at Stan as she did so, his eyes glued intently to the television.

“ _Your expedition is at the center of a storm of controversy over salvage rights and even ethics. Many are calling you a grave robber_.” said the suited news reporter, his face green from the motion of the boat as he pointed his microphone towards the other man.

“ _Nobody called the recovery of the artifacts from King Tut's tomb grave robbing.” he replied. “I have museum-trained experts here, making sure this stuff is preserved and catalogued properly. Look at this drawing, which was found today…_ ”

The camera panned to show a piece of worn paper in a tray of water, and stan could almost see the candlelight illuminating the decadent room and feel the heavy chain around his neck as his eyes roved over the light outline of the pencil.

“ _...a piece of paper that's been underwater for 84 years, and my team are able to preserve it intact. Should this have remained unseen at the bottom of the ocean for eternity, when we can see it and enjoy it now?_ ”

The man’s voice became nothing more than a buzz in Stan’s ears as he gasped, his mouth hanging open, his gaze never wavering from the fading signature at the bottom of the page. It was a name he had never dared to speak aloud, yet it followed him everywhere he went, never quite leaving, and he could never quite bring himself to let it go, either.

“Well I’ll be damned.” he whispered, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth as the image on the screen changed, the camera returning to the explorer as he reeled off some spiel about looking for information.

“Pop?” Emily asked softly, and her voice brought him back to reality. 

Shooting her a reassuring smile, Stan shuffled back to his seat at the kitchen table before turning to his granddaughter. “Will you pass me the phone dear?”

Before Stan knew it, he had dialled the phone number provided by the news station and was listening to the robotic rings as he nervously played with his weathered wedding ring.

“This is Adrian Mellon. What can I do for you?” asked a gruff voice on the other end of the line and Stan cleared his throat.

“Mr. Mellon, my name is Stanley Uris. I was wondering if you could help me.”

Emily looked nothing short of dizzy as she watched her grandfather, his weathered face and thinning curls illuminated by the evening sun while his eyes twinkled with a hope she had never seen before.

The man on the other end of the line sighed. “Mr. Uris, I have a lot of things to do, so if you don’t mind-”

“I just wanted to know if you’d found the Heart of the Ocean yet, Mr. Mellon.”

Stan giggled, loud and free spirited as he heard the man drop the phone and scramble to pick it up.

“Okay, you have my attention, Stanley.” he huffed. “Can you tell me who the man in the picture is?”

With his heart beating rapidly against his chest, Stan closed his eyes and dug into the recesses of his brain, back into the memories he hadn’t let himself touch in a long, long time. When he opened his eyes, his granddaughter was staring at him in confusion, and he heard Adrian clear his throat on the other end of the line.

“Oh yes,” he breathed, “the man in the picture is me.”

* * *

Stan deeply inhaled the fresh sea air as Emily pushed his wheelchair onto the deck of the boat. Not since that fateful day had Stan stepped foot onto a boat, and amongst the rough wood and the breaking waves, he had never felt more at home.

He sat comfortably on the small cabin bed as he arranged a number of pictures on the chipped sideboard, listening to the raised voices outside the door.

“I’m telling you, Adrian, he’s a goddamn liar. Stanley Uris died on the Titanic at the age of seventeen, making him-”

“A hundred. I know, Corcoran.” Mellon sighed, and the voice of the man Stanley didn’t know became even louder.

“The only Stanley that survived the Titanic was Stanley Denbrough, who then worked as an actor in LA, a damned actor, Mellon. Then he married some chick named Patty, moved to Cedar Rapids, then Patty kicked the bucket and so did Cedar Rapids.”

“And everybody who knows about the diamond is supposed to be dead, or on this ship. But he knows about it. And I want to hear what he has to say. Got it?”

“Ahem.”

Stan’s curt cough startled the pair of men, neither of him hearing him open the cabin door.

“Hello, Mr. Uris, is your room alright?” asked Mellon, while the other man, slightly fatter, definitely hairier, eyed Stan suspiciously. 

“Yes, very nice, thank you.” he replied curtly while Emily continued to unpack behind him.

“Um, is there anything you’d like?” he asked awkwardly, looking between his partner and Stan.

A grin spread over Stan's face as he eyed the pair in front of him.

“Yes, actually.” Stan chirped. “I would like to see my drawing.”

Nothing could have prepared for the way the picture would look after all of these years. The pencil lines were still intact, drawn sturdy with a well practiced hand yet still clumsy enough to show the nerves of the artist, but you would only notice if you had seen the hands that drew it shake the way Stan did. He almost laughs at the way his body looked, all slim and smooth compared to it now sagging with age, yet the one thing that had refused to change were his eyes, still bright and truthful and open.

“Louis the Sixteenth wore a fabulous stone, called the Blue Diamond of the Crown, which disappeared in 1792, about the time Louis lost everything from the neck up. The theory goes that the crown diamond was chopped too, recut into a heart-like shape, and it became Le Coeur de la Mer. The Heart of the Ocean. Today it would be worth more than the Hope Diamond.” Mellon supplied, more for Emily’s benefit than anyone else's, and his eyes were pulled to the petite carbon sketch of it.

“It was a dreadful, heavy thing.” Stan interjected, finally tearing his eyes away. “I only wore it this once.”

“I can’t believe that’s actually you, Pop.” Emily whispered into his ear as she wheeled him through the boat to a small room with half a dozen monitors, reeling footage of crushed iron and sand.

“What can I say, I was a hot ticket.” he winked before settling in front of one of the monitors, watching the video reveal the wreckage of the ship.

“If that really is you in the picture, Stan, and the date in the corner is correct, you were wearing that necklace when the Titanic went down.”

The mention of the name of the boat sent shivers down Stan’s spine as he sighed, watching the camera progress through the wreck.

“And that makes you my new best friend.” Mellon continued. “I will happily compensate you if you can tell us anything that will lead to its discovery.

“I don’t want your money, Mr. Mellon. I know how hard it is for people who have it to give it away.” Stan’s laugh was mirthless as he continued to stare at the screen.

“You don’t want anything?” Questioned Corcoran, the skepticism oozing from his lips and hitting Stan like a freight train. Shaking his head, he looked wistfully back at the water tank that housed the pencil drawing.

“You may give me that, if I tell you anything of value.”

The pair look at each other, and shrug. “Deal.” Corcoran reasons before turning back to the monitor.

Stan followed the stream as the camera panned around one of the rooms, his eyes lingering on a broken grandfather clock, much like the one he passed everyday on the way to dinner.

“It’s not much to look at.” Mellon spoke, following Stan’s line of sight.

Sighing, Stan’s lips quirked into a nostalgic smile. “Well, it looked a little bit different when I was there.”

“Will you tell us, Stan?”

Looking up again at the monitor, his eyes were flooded with the image of broken floorboards and smashed mirrors, and he felt his eyes well up with tears for the first time, having never allowing himself to think about it before, to think about how one stupid, grand ship changed the whole course of his life.

“I’m taking him back to bed.” Emily moved to grab the handles of the wheelchair.

“No!” Stan snapped, and he wiped his eyes, inhaling a heaving breath as he looked up to find three pairs of quizzical eyes looking back at him.

“Tell us, Stan.” Mellon soothed, moving to sit on the chair opposite him while Emily’s hand came to rest in his own.

“It’s been eighty four years-” Stan started, before getting interrupted.

“Just tell us what you can.”

“It’s been eighty four years,” he tried again, his voice clear and forceful, “and I can still smell the fresh paint.”

No matter how long ago it was, and no matter how hard he tried not to think about it, all Stan had to do was close his eyes to hear the clink of new china and feel the fresh linen of the sheets.

Titanic was called The Ship of Dreams, but to Stan, it ended up being so much more than that. To Stan, Titanic was where he truly learned to live.


	2. 10th April 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'He could faintly hear Eddie laughing beside him, and he knew he was in for an earful afterwards, but Bill couldn’t help but let his mind linger on the stranger, and he hoped and hoped that he’d see him again.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for everyone's kind comments on the prolouge - i hope this chapter doesn't disappoint ! this thing pretty much wrote itself, so i'm not gonna promise that i'll have the next part up by tomorrow, but i should hopefully update again before the week is through  
> enjoy !

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Bill.” Eddie fretted from his seat at the rickety table, his eyes flitting between the stranger opposite them and the cards in his hands. 

“C-come on, Eddie. You can’t have anything to lose if you have nothing in the first place.” he winked, smirking around the cigarette dangling from his lips. Bill pushed his last two cents into the small pile in the middle of the table, his eyes hungrily honing in on two slips of white paper sitting proudly at the top of the small heap of money. 

Being a drifter had been kind to Bill. Yes, his pockets were seldom full and he had slept in some compromising locations, but nothing could ever compare to the exhilarating sense of freedom that came with hitching rides and having nowhere to be the next day.   He had picked Eddie up when he was sixteen while he was freeloading in Rome, just a year after he had left home for good. The poor kid spoke broken english and had some sort of fixation on washing his hands, but from what Bill could gather, he was running away from his mother and needed some place to go. The pair had been glued to each other ever since, roving around the world on their own sweet time, chancing their way through life.

That is exactly how they found themselves on this situation. After enduring a five hour trip in the hold of a fishing boat, the pair had spent the last month traipsing around Ireland until they found themselves down in Cobh, trying to gamble their way aboard the Titanic. 

Exhaling a puff of smoke, Bill listened to the final whistle blow outside the small harbour pub. He put out his cigarette against the table, his eyes steely and unrevealing as he glanced between his hand and the Swedish men sat opposite him.

“Alright boys,” he grinned, “somebody’s life’s about to change.”

Next to him, Eddie puffed out a shuddering breath, one Bill thinks he’s been holding since the game started as he flung his cards on the table face up, the two men following suit.

“Let’s see.” he drawled, looking at the hands. “Alright, Eddie’s got niente, Olaf you’ve got squ-quat. Sven- uh oh.” he groaned, looking between his own hand and the Swede’s, his shoulders sagging. “T-two pair.”

Heaving out a sigh, Bill turned to Eddie. “I-I’m really sorry, Eddie.”

Eddie’s face went red from the neck up, as if someone had opened the top of his head and started filling his body with hot water from a kettle, his eyes dark and piercing. “Sorry? Sorry?! You’ve lost my fucking money? Ma va fa'n culo testa di cazzo-” 

“I’m sorry that y-you’re not gonna see your mama for a long time.” he interrupted, unable to hide the growing grin on his face as he slapped his cards against the table, proudly displaying the three aces and two kings in all their glory.

“‘Cause you’re going to America. Full house, boys!” he cheered, allowing Eddie to pull him into a bone crushing hug and cheer loudly down his ear.

“No,” came a booming voice from behind the bar which made Bill whip is hear around. The man flung his bar towel over his shoulder and pointed up at the clock. “Titanic’s going to America. In five minutes.”

Without missing a beat, Bill and Eddie scrambled to grab the tickets and shove as much money into their pockets as they could before scarpering out of the pub, not before Eddie stopped at the door to tip his flat cap at the brawny men, their mouths agog as the pair sped towards the boat, their small bags of belongings slung over their shoulders as they weaved through spectators and punters alike, spewing out half hearted apologies in their wake as they legged it towards the third class gangway, arriving at the ramp just as the officer detached it from the boat. 

“Wait!” Bill yelled, pulling Eddie up the ramp with one hand and brandishing the tickets in the other. “We’re passengers.”

The officer eyed the pair dubiously. “Have you been through the inspection queue?” he questioned, warily holding the door open.

“Yes, of c-course we have. And besides, we don’t have lice, we’re American.” he lied cheerfully, nudging Eddie’s shoulder with his own. “Both of us.”

The cheesy grin Eddie shot the officer must have worked, as the officer testily had the porter reattach the ramp and they climbed aboard, showing their tickets to the officer before running down the freshly whitewashed corridor, their cheers echoing off the walls as they grinned from ear to ear. With all their worldly possessions clutched tightly in their hands, the pair made their way up to the top deck, just in time for the ship to pull away from the harbour. They laughed freely as they leaned over the side of the deck, waving joyfully at the crowds gathered below as the heavy sides of the ships broke the sapphire waves. As the vast throngs of people became about as big as the charcoal smudge on Bill’s left sleeve, the pair retreated back inside and navigated their way along the narrow corridors until their found their room, thrusting the door open and throwing their bags onto the unclaimed bunk bed, throwing greetings to the other two men inhabiting the room. 

“Bill Denbrough.” he introduced himself, holding out his hand for them to shake while Eddie climbed up onto the top bunk, snuggling into the crisp white pillow.

The other men looked at each other in confusion before tentatively shaking Bill’s hand in turn. As they whispered to each other in what Bill could only assume was Swedish, he flopped down on the bottom bunk, raising his legs to the mattress above him, pushing up with the soles of his feet until he heard Eddie squeak in surprise at being lifted. Bill laughed, loud and long and free as he lowered his legs, and he let the lingering sense of euphoria finally settle over him. This was it. He was on the ship that God himself couldn’t sink with his best friend, his pocket heavy with foreign coins and his bag full of paper and pencils. Most importantly, though, he was going home.

 

For Stanley Uris however, being on the ship was not a joyful affair. Boarding at Southampton had forced Stan to face how cruel reality really was. The short time he had spent in England with his mother and fiance may have been stifling, being constantly under their watch and scrutiny, but Stan was still his own person, not yet bound by marriage and duty. As soon as he sets foot on American soil, he would be condemned to count down the short days until he became shackled by holy matrimony to Henry fucking Bowers.

On paper, they were a stellar match. Stan, the son of a wealthy widowed socialite, and Henry, the well groomed, well spoken son of a prosperous steel baron. To anyone on the outside looking in, they were perfect for each other. 

If that was the case, why did Stan want to tear Henry’s head from his neck?

He readily accepts the tulip glass of Bucks Fizz from the room service waiter as he looks through his collection of paintings, thumbing over the peachy hued water lilies on his favourite canvas before shifting it aside to show one of his more recent purchases, as he tried desperately to block Henry’s voice from his head.

“Those mud puddles were a waste of money.” Henry comments from his place in the doorway of the living room, making Stan cringe as he flicks his cigar ash onto the carpet.

“You're wrong.” Stan retorted. “They're fascinating. Like in a dream... there's truth without logic. What's his name again?” he mumbled to himself, lifting the painting so it was at eye level, humming as he found the small smudge of a signature in the bottom right corner. “Picasso.”

Henry scoffed, resting the cigar in an ashtray on the mantelpiece as he came further into the decadent sitting room. “He'll never amount to a thing, trust me. At least they were cheap.” he scoffed, humming in appreciation as his porter wheeled his safe into the bedroom. “Put that in the wardrobe.” he commanded, and Stan tried his best to block out Henry’s other demands as he entered his own room, the large Degas in his hands.

Placing it down carefully on the dresser, Stan smiled kindly at Trudy, his maid, as she meticulously hangs his clothes into the mahogany wardrobe.

“It smells so brand new.” Trudy gushed, shooting Stan an excited grin as she carefully stowed his shirts on one of the sturdy shelves. “Like they built it all just for us. I mean... just to think that tonight, when I crawl between the sheets, I’ll be the first--”

“And when I crawl between the sheets tonight,” Henry bolstered, appearing in the doorway, the cigar once again tucked between his fingers, “I'll still be the first.”

“Henry!” Stan gasped as Trudy flushed crimson, her head bowed meekly at the innuendo.

“S'cuse me, Sir.” she mumbled, edging around Henry before fleeing from the room.

To anyone else, Henry’s leer would only express amusement, his power granted by his wealth seemingly bringing him quite a lot of it, but all Stan could see was cruelty and a lifetime of unhappiness ahead of him. The feeling increased tenfold as Henry wrapped his hands around Stan’s thin shoulders, his grip too tight to be gentle. Henry Bowers did not touch Stan to show intimacy; Henry touched Stan to show possession.

“The first and only. Forever.” he whispered down Stan’s ear. 

Henry’s breath hitting his neck made him feel sick, but the prospect of spending the rest of his life dealing with this, dealing with  _ him,  _ made Stan’s stomach sink right down to the floor, as if he’d swallowed a large chunk of lead. Actually, Stan swallowing lead sounds like a much more pleasant option. At least he’d be out of his misery relatively quickly.

When Henry finally peeled himself from behind Stan and left the room, Stan let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding and sunk down onto the bed. 

He wanted to cry, wanted to scream, wanted to thrust his fists against the newly plastered walls until his knuckles bled and his voice was hoarse. He didn’t have time to do that, though. He had to get ready for dinner.

* * *

 

The ships deck was aglow with the creamy light of the late afternoon, the cold wind not unwelcome under the hazy heat of the sun as passengers soaked up its rays, the gentle cut of the waves lapping against steel lulling them into a state of peace. The serenity, however, did not last long, as Eddie and Bill screeched out their laughter, shouting obscenities to the sea at the bow of the ship.

Mike Hanlon watched the pair with an amused chuckle from behind the wheel of the ship, a stoic figure amongst the organised chaos that controlled the steerage of the boat.

“Take her to sea, Mr. Hagarty.” He calls out behind him. “Let’s stretch her legs a bit.”

After some scuffling behind him, Mike grinned as he felt the boat give a bittersweet lurch, the wind whipping more fiercely around his ears as the speed increased.

“Twenty one knots, sir.” Hagarty reported, and Mike gave him an approving nod.

“She’s got a bone in her teeth now, eh Hagarty?” Mike cajoled as he accepted a cup of tea from another one of the officers, immediately taking a sip as he turned back to watch the pair at the bow contentedly.

They leaned over the edge of the bow, watching two dolphins appear under the glassy bow wave, running fast just in front of the steel blade of the prow like two pieces of jade, the water over them like glass. They do it for the sheer joy and exultation of motion, and they do it simply because they can. Bill watched with a grin as they breach, jumping clear of the water and then diving back down beneath the spray, crisscrossing in front of the bow, dancing ahead of the juggernaut like ballerinas. Eddie’s exhilarated giggles died down as he stared across the crystal plane of the Atlantic.

“I can see the Statue of Liberty from here.” he grinned at Bill, his hand coming up to his eyebrow as he stared across the sea. “It’s very small, of course.”

Bill barked a laugh as he steps up onto the first rung of the bow, leaning his body over the railing as he flung his arms in the air.

“I’m King of the world!” he screamed, his cackles obscured by the wind, his breaths deep and frequent as Eddie screamed in glee next to him. 

Sighing deeply, Bill let his body relax, content to watch the clouds drift across the sky. That was, until, Bill felt a blunt force dislodge his foot from the railing, sending him flying to the floor. He would have found it in himself to panic if it weren’t for Eddie’s maniacal laughter flooding his ears. He quickly sprung to his feet, chasing Eddie down to the deck, not even caring when he tripped over his own bootlaces.

* * *

“She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history.” Bragged Mr. Keene as he combed his fingers through his ridiculously bushy moustache. “And our master shipbuilder, Mr. Hanscom here, designed her from the keel plates up.”

Ben Hanscom blushed under the attention, turning his ruddily handsome face an even more endearing shade of red. “Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Keene's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is.” He beamed, as humble as she was proud. 

“Why're ships always bein' called ‘she’? Is it because men think half the women around have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?” Joked Beverly Marsh, who preened under the laughter of the table. “Just another example of the men settin' the rules their way.”

Stan tried to hide his smile at that, and it went unnoticed by everyone but Bev herself, who shot him a wink. Beverly Marsh was what his mother would call ‘new money’. Her ex-husband had struck gold somewhere out west, and she had secured a large chunk of it during their extremely messy divorce. She put most of it into shares, making back the money tenfold, and it was easy enough to see that she was spending it like it’d been in her family for decades. Stan’s mother and Henry didn’t think Bev belonged amongst the elite, her money only coming to her recently and all, but Stan thought that she was the only person amongst the society they had fabricated for themselves worth the time of day. She had been nothing but kind to Stan since they had met a few months ago at some gala in London, and if she was nothing else, she was funny, and Stan needed all the laughter he could get.

Their aimless chit chat was cut short with the arrival of a waiter, and Stan took the opportunity to light a cigarette, the tortoise shell holder poised delicately between his fingers as he took a drag, instantly feeling himself relax.

“You know I don’t like that, Stanley.” His mother moaned, her voice low enough for only him to hear. Feeling bolstered by their company, Stan took another drag and exhaled it in his mother’s general direction.

“He knows.” said Henry curtly, plucking the cigarette from the holder and stubbing it out. It took all Stan had in him not to complain as he sunk back in his chair, his eyes tracing over the menu in front of him.

“We’ll both have the lamb with a little mint sauce.” Henry decided, snatching Stan’s menu from under him, passing it to the waiter. “You like lamb, don’t you dear?”

Bev answered before Stan had the chance to. “What, you gonna cut his meat for him too, Henry?” she quipped, shooting an apologetic look at Stan before turning back to Mr. Keene. “Say, who came up with the name Titanic? You, Keene?”

Mr. Keene seemed quite pleased with this assumption. “Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury, and safety-”

“Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Keene?” interrupted Stan, his ears burning and his heart hammering against his chest, but he'd be damned if he let anyone see his frustration. “His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you.”

Bev barked out a laugh as she clapped Ben on the back, as he was choking on a breadstick in his effort to suppress his laughter.

“My God, Stan, what's gotten into-” spluttered his mother, but he gave her no time to finish as he shoved his napkin onto his plate as he stood from the table. 

“Excuse me.” he ground out before storming out out of the dining hall.

 

Bill Denbrough was lounging on a bench, his suspenders hanging down by his hips as he balanced the leather bound sketch book on his bent knees, his eyes flitting from the pages to a middle aged man and his daughter, pointing up at the clouds in the rose coloured sky. Eddie leans slowly over his shoulder, careful not to throw Bill off, and he nods appreciatively. 

“Typical. First class dogs come down here to take a shit.” Said an unfamiliar voice from the right of them, the thick irish brogue like butter in Bill’s ears. When he looked up, he found a lanky man, perhaps not much older than himself and Eddie, with thick raven hair and horn rimmed glasses, wearing the most garish overcoat Bill had ever seen, patched with what looked like a young girl’s quilt. He staring at a crewmember walking three small dogs, shaking his head at the sight.

“T-that’s so we know where we rank in the grand scheme of things.” Bill responded, closing his book.

He found the man’s guffaws to be infectious, and soon both he and Eddie were chuckling along. “As if we could forget.”

“Richie Tozier.” he introduced himself as, and Bill heartily shook his hand as he told him his name, finding the man’s company nothing short of relaxing.

If Richie spoke again, Bill wasn’t listening. Instead, his eyes were trained on a figure stepping out onto the upper deck, coming to lean against the railing. Bill watched the man intently, the setting sun turning his skin to honey and his hair to spun gold, the evening breeze ruffling his sleeves as he twiddled his thumbs delicately, yet with a sense of absent minded purpose that left Bill dry at the mouth. He wanted to draw him, wanted to try and immortalise the almost girly sweep of his nose and the sinful way his pale blue trousers clung to his legs with lead and charcoal. Bill knew he could never serve the man’s beauty justice, but he’d be honoured to have the opportunity to try.

“Forget it, boyo. You'd as like have angels fly out o' yer arse as get next to the likes o' him.” Richie warned, but Bill ignored him, watching the man’s chest heave under the tin material of his silky shirt. His world came to a stuttering halt as the man turned, his bright eyes locking with Bill’s. Bill thought the man expected him to be at least bashful to be caught staring, but Bill was anything but. If anything, the blush on the man’s cheeks, barely visible in the evening glow, encouraged Bill more, and he didn’t miss the coy smile on his face as he turned away. 

The small bubble the two men found themselves in was quickly burst by the arrival of another man, who almost drowned in his obviously expensive suit, as he grabbed the arm of the object of Bill’s admiration. The pair argued as the golden haired man pulled his arm away. They looked like one of the couples Bill would watch in Montmartre in the early hours of the morning, and the way they stormed off left him feeling uneasy. Still, Bill’s gaze never wandered or faltered until the man had exited the deck.

He could faintly hear Eddie laughing beside him, and he knew he was in for an earful afterwards, but Bill couldn’t help but let his mind linger on the stranger, and he hoped and hoped that he’d see him again.


	3. 10th-11th April 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'The sun had made him feel, for the first time in a long time, hopeful, and he was almost certain that the pair of honest eyes and head of copper that had plagued his dreams the night before had something to do with it. The feeling increased tenfold, as if Stan had never felt the sun before in his life, when he finally spotted them on the third class deck.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back on my usual bullshit!!!!  
> i'm going away later on this week and i won't be back for 3 weeks so i'm not promising i will, but i'll try to update before i go, but if i don't you'll definitely get the next chapter some time in early august <3  
> SUICIDE TW FOR THE START OF THIS CHAPTER !!!!!!!

It was all too much for Stan. 

The heat of the dining room was stifling. Each drag of the pristinely polished cutlery against the porcelain plates grated against him, setting his teeth on edge and his nerves on fire. Even his shirt, his favourite one, the material the colour of the apples when they fell from the trees in the early autumn, felt constricting, the collar suffocating him as if it were a snake, slowly but surely crushing his airways, and all Stan could do was nod mindlessly to the brain numbing conversation at the table and try not to hit his shaking leg on the underside of the table.

It was all too much for Stan, which was exactly how he ended up here. His feet bounding against the wood of the deck. Tears burning tracks down his pallid cheeks. Stan had seen his life as it was always going to be: an endless parade of parties and galas, niceties and frivolity. It was an endless tirade of narrow minded people, all trying to fight their way to the top of a narrow minded society. He was teetering on the edge of a great, dark, precipice, and there was nobody to grab his arm and yank him back, to stop him from falling. But maybe that was the point. Maybe the only satisfying outcome from Stan’s mundane life was one that he forged for himself. Instead of being pulled back, maybe Stan needed to give himself a push.

His legs shook as he climbed over the railing of the stern, gripping to the flag pole for dear life as he moved until his back was to the ship, his body leaning over the inky abyss below him, like a figurehead in reverse. The massive propellers churned the water into white foam, leaving a ghostly trail in their wake as they pushed the ship forward into the night. The only sounds around him were the cut of the waves below him and his occasional sniffling, and he decided now was as good a time as any.

Straightening his arms, Stan peered down into the swirling vortex below, the rough sea wind whipping his curls around his ears. With a heaving breath, Stan detached his fingers from the railing,

“D-don’t do it.”

Stan gasped, his hand quickly clutching the bar once more as he whipped his head around, trying to locate the source of the noise through teary eyes. Through the tears, he could just about make out a figure, tall and broad, their hair glinting emerald under the low light of the promenade.

“Stay back! Don’t come any closer!” Stan warned, willing his voice to be clear and steady, but instead it sounded shrill and manic, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

It had been sheer luck that Bill had been laying out on the deck, and when the man from earlier that day came bounding out onto it, Bill thought he might have found the opportunity to introduce himself. But as soon as he climbed over the railing, Bill knew that they would be meeting in circumstances less pleasant than the ones his mind had formulated. Bill could see the tear tracks staining the man’s face even under the pale moonlight, and he held out his hand for him to take.

“Grab on, I’ll p-pull you back in.”

“No!” the man screamed again. “Stay where you are. I mean it, I’ll let go.”

Bill stayed put, holding his hand further out. “No you won’t.”

The man’s head whipped fully around now, his eyes turning from desperate to enraged, and although it wasn’t the direction Bill was hoping he was headed in, it was progress.

“What do you mean no I won’t? Don’t presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don’t know me.” He snapped, glaring furiously at Bill.

“You would’ve done it already.” Bill pointed out, bringing his hand closer to the other man’s. “Now c-come on. Take my hand.”

Confusion swam around in Stan’s head. He still couldn’t see very much through the tears, so he brought one hand up to wipe at his face, but it immediately returned to the railing when he almost lost his balance. Making do without his fill eyesight, Stan turned back around and shoved his chin in the ear.

“You’re distracting me. Now go away.”

Bill breathed out an inaudible chuckle that sounded almost fond in his own ears. “I can’t. I’m involved n-now. If you let go now I’m gonna have to jump in after you.”

Huffing out a sigh, Bill made light work of stripping off his coat while the man stared at him incredulously.

“Don’t be absurd. You’d get killed.”

Unlacing his boots, Bill shrugged. “I’m a good swimmer.”

“The fall alone would kill you.” The man argued back, gripping tighter to the railing.

“It would hurt. I'm not saying it wouldn't. To be honest I'm a lot more concerned about the water being so cold.”

The man froze, peering down into the sea below him before clearing his throat. “How- uh, how cold?”

Yanking off his left shoe, Bill shrugged again. “Freezing. Maybe a couple d-degrees over.”

The man made a noise in his throat that Bill thought was supposed to be and offhanded acknowledgment, but it instead came out as a whimper.

“You ever been to Wisconsin?”

The question clearly caught the man by surprise, as he once again turned his face to look at Bill through wet eyes.

“No.”

“Well they have some of the coldest winters around, and I gr-grew up there, near Milwaukee. Once when I was a kid me and my father were ice-fishing out on Lake W-Wissota-” Bill noticed the man’s face hadn’t changed during the one sided conversation. “Ice-fishing's where you chop a hole in the-”

“I know what ice-fishing is!” the man snapped.

“Sorry.” Bill held up his hands in surrender. “Just... you look like kind of an indoor guy. Anyway, I went through some th-thin ice and I'm tellin' ya, water that cold... like that right down there, i-it hits you like a thousand knives all over your body. You can't breathe, you can't think... l-least not about anything but the  _ pain _ .”  Bill looked over to find the man staring intently at the ocean. 

Huffing out another loud sigh, Bill pulled off his other boot, letting it drop with a thud to the deck. “Which is why I'm n-not looking forward to jumping in after you. But like I said, I don't s-see a choice. I guess I'm kinda hoping you'll come back over the rail and get me off the h-hook here.”

A moment of silence passed between the two before the man spoke again, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“With all due respect,” Bill said steadily, carefully moving closer to the man as if he’d suddenly jump at the first sign of movement like a spooked horse, “I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship. You don’t want to d-do this, just,” he held out his hand, “take my hand.”

The man looked at the hand incredulously, as if it were some foreign object, before looking into Bill’s eyes, and Bill resisted the urge to gasp at how clear they were without tears obstructing them. Chocolate met azure in a fleeting dance, and before Bill knew it, the man had stretched one arm across his body and firmly gripped Bill’s hand. It shook in Bill’s grip, and he tried again to distract the man.

“I’m Bill Denbrough.” he blurted, not missing the small smile on the man’s face as he started to turn, his grip tightening like a vice on Bill’s hand, and Bill held onto it for dear life.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Denbrough. I’m Stanley Uris.” he breathed, taking steadying breaths as he fully turned to face the ship. His foot shakily made contact with the next rung on the railing, and Bill could see the tension leave him as his shoulders deflated.

It seemed to happen all at once. Stan’s foot slipped and he was falling. Bill was gripping onto him with both arms. The sea screamed and cackled beneath them as the man shrieked.

“I w-won’t let you go.” Bill promised as he braced himself against the railing, beginning to pull Stan over the stern of the ship, awkwardly and desperately grabbing whatever part of him he could to haul him over onto the deck.

The pair fell flat against the wood, panting against each other, with Bill’s body half sprawled on top of Stan’s as he regained his breath. Bill opened his mouth to speak when another voice beat him to it.

“What’s all this?!”

The deckmaster hauled Bill’s body off Stan’s, revealing him to look dishevelled and sobbing, the waist of his trousers slung low on his hips and his shirt ripped across the chest. Bill was just as much of a sight, the shaggy artist from steerage devoid of his jacket and his shoes. He looked between the pair and quickly called for the Master at Arms, bracing Bill’s arms behind his back.

It didn’t take five minutes for Bill to be handcuffed and for Stan to be in the arms of the guy Bill saw him having an argument with, a woman who must have been his mother standing close by, as well as a lanky man with a dark mop of hair and cold eyes. Bill recognised him as Henry’s porter, but he had a face Bill would sooner forget. The man by Stan’s side must have felt Bill staring, as he stormed over and grabbed Bill by the lapels.

“Henry!” Stan cried, rushing forward, but he was quickly restrained by his mother.

“Who do you think you are, huh?!” Henry spat. Bill was an inch or two taller than the man, but the sheer force of his grip almost had Bill’s feet off the floor. Bill tried to struggle against his grip and wipe the other man’s spit from his face, but the restraints on his hands made him unable to do so. “What makes you think you can put your hands on my fiance, you  _ filth _ ?!”

It had only just dawned on Bill how the whole situation appeared to look, Stan with his ripped shirt and Bill without his coat or shoes. He was glad Stan was there, as his brain couldn’t supply a story fast enough.

“It was an accident!” Stan sobbed, finally breaking free of his mother’s grip, rushing over to the pair.

“An- an accident?” Henry quizzed, his eyebrow furrowed. His grip on Bill’s shirt loosened slightly, and he was glad to be able to touch the floor again.

“It was… well it was stupid really.” Stan bluffed, his dismissive laugh to realistic to be harmless. “I was leaning over the edge of the ship and I slipped.”

Stan’s eyes met Bill’s in a desperate plea, but all Bill could do was attempt a shrug, not knowing how to assist.

“I uh, wanted to see the… propellers! Yes, I was leaning over to look at the propellers and I slipped. It was a good thing that Mr. Denbrough was here to pull me back, even if he almost went over himself.”

Although Stan’s tale seemed convincing enough, the pair waited with baited breath for Henry’s reaction. Stan thought Henry might berate him for being so careless, Bill was convinced he was getting punched, but neither of them were prepared for Henry’s laugh, loud and arrogant and crude. He slowly uncurled his hand from Bill’s shirt and motioned to the Master at Arms, who quickly released Bill’s wrists from their confines.

“City boys and machinery don’t mix, it seems.” Henry crooned, his grin more like a leer as he looked over at Stan, who weakly chuckled in response.

“Come on then!” Henry quickly announced, finally draping his dinner jacket around Stan’s shaking shoulders, leading him towards the exit. “Back to our brandy, it seems.”

Stan’s eyes followed Bill as the poor shoved his feet back into the thin leather 

“Perhaps a little something for the boy?” said the Master of Arms, clipping the cuffs back onto his belt.

Henry turned to Bill, plastering a tight smile onto his face. “Of course. Mr. Hocksetter, a twenty should do it.”

The dark haired man stepped forward, pulling a large wad of notes from his pocket. Taking one from the pile, he folded it up and placed it roughly in the front pocket of Bill’s shirt before walking back to Henry’s side.

Stan watched with a scowl, flinching as Henry’s arm wrapped itself around his shoulders. “Is that the going rate for saving the man you love?”

The dark chuckle that rumbled in Henry’s throat set Bill on edge, and his stomach gave a sickening lurch as Henry cupped Stan’s chin, pinching it harder between his fingers as Stan tried to pull away.

“Stan is displeased. Mmm… what to do?”

Henry spinned on his heel, condescendingly appraising Bill. To him, Bill was nothing more that an unwashed, ill-mannered steerage ruffian, and in the eyes of Henry Bowers, that equated to nothing more than vermin.

“Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow, to regale our group with your heroic tale?” He requested, the amusement in his voice only heightened by the mocking smirk on his face. Henry knew Bill could do nought but embarrass himself whether he accepted or declined, but Bill would be damned if he let the bastard quell his nerve.

“Sure.” Bill agreed, gazing past Henry to lock eyes with Stan, whose mouth was agape. Bill was talking to him now. He was not accepting to be polite, nor to provide Henry with amusement. Bill Denbrough was now inextricably tied to Stanley Uris, whether either boy liked it or not. Bill knew Stan was unhappy, and Bill was bold enough to believe he could make him be anything but. “I’ll be there.”

Henry’s eyes were thunderous but his smile was large as he wrapped a protective arm around Stan, forcing him off the deck, Stan’s mother and Henry’s porter in tow, each of them sending Bill their own disapproving glances. 

On his own once again, Bill slipped his arms back into his coat, lighting another cigarette and blowing smoke up to the stars. Eddie berated him for wandering back in at such an ungodly hour, but Bill wasn’t paying attention. All he could think about was the twenty in his breast pocket and what on earth he’d gotten himself into.

* * *

Stan was not one for feeling things just for the sake of it. He was neither a romantic nor a dreamer. He prefered honest simplicity; he had no time to sugar coat and glorify things, it was as simple as that. If you were to ask him, he’d say he was a realist, merely more concerned with saying things exactly how they are than sparing himself of heartbreak or upset. Perhaps he was cynical, but that was just the way he was. No person, place or thing had yet possessed the power to change this.

Or so Stan thought. 

Sprawled out on his sheets that morning he had mused not once, not twice, but three times, how charming the sky looked, candyfloss clouds littering the otherwise clear plane. He had been as close to chipper as one could be surrounded by ignorant bourgeoise that early in the morning as he took breakfast, laughing it off when he accidentally dragged the sleeve of his cream shirt over the small mound of jam that covered his toast. He surprised himself once again when he thought about how nice the early afternoon sun was against his skin. If you had asked him what was causing him to act so strangely that Saturday, he would not have been able to honestly answer. The sun had made him feel, for the first time in a long time,  _ hopeful _ , and he was almost certain that the pair of honest eyes and head of copper that had plagued his dreams the night before had something to do with it. The feeling increased tenfold, as if Stan had never felt the sun before in his life, when he finally spotted them on the third class deck.

Nerves suddenly wracked his body.  _ As if I have something to be nervous about,  _ he chastised himself. He was simply going to thank the man who had saved his life for doing so, clarify that he still wanted to attend dinner, and then leave. Simple.

Stan thought as much, until he peered over the gate that led into the third class general room, only to find Bill Denbrough with a young girl in his lap, the pair of them doodling with small pieces of charcoal in a sketchbook filled with thick pages. Stan decided to ignore the way his heart fluttered as he watched Bill say something to the young girl, smiling fondly at her as she erupted into fits of giggles. 

Cursing under his breath, Stan watched as the girl hopped down from Bill’s lap and took her father's hand, her long chestnut hair whipping around her shoulder as she turned to wave goodbye to Bill. Figuring now was as good a time as any, Stan straightened his back and lifted his chin, undoing the latch on the gate, purposefully climbing down the small set of stairs. 

The deck became silent as he walked in between the rows of benches, and Stan realised how out of place he looked amongst the crowd. Still, he never faltered, especially as Bill peered around, confused, looking for the source of the silence, before his eyes landed on Stan. The man next to him stared at Stan in disbelief, pushing his wire glasses up the long bridge of his nose as he elbowed the tan man sat next to him, who in turn began to choke on his own spit. Stan tried to ignore them, instead walking over to Bill, smiling as he rose to meet him.

“Hello, Bill.” Stan’s voice was soft, purely because he didn’t want to attract more attention to himself, of course.

“Huh-hello again.” Bill grinned, peering at Eddie and Richie out of the corner of his eye, both of whom were floored, as if Bill was Cinderella and Stan had just presented him with the fitting shoe.

“Could I talk to you in private?” Stan asked, not wasting any time.

“Uh, yes. Of course. After you.”

Bill followed after Stan, the shocked silence that stretched across the deck deafening him as he looked over his shoulder to Richie and Eddie, shooting them a shrug and a grin.

The mismatched couple strolled in silence for a while around the first class deck, both of them surprisingly content to be in each other’s company, despite the curious glances, yet the awkwardness between them was eating at them both.

Stan was the first one to pierce the silence, daintily clearing his throat.

“Mr. Denbrough, I-”

“Bill.” he interrupted. If the conversation was going to be as uneasy as the quiet between them, Stan was going to call Bill by his first name.

“ _ Bill,  _ I just wanted to thank you for what you did. Not just for pulling me back, but also for your… discretion.”

“You’re welcome, Stan.” Bill replied sincerely. 

“I know what you must be thinking,” Stan continued, apparently not even hearing Bill’s reply, “poor little rich boy. What does he know about misery-”

“That’s not what I was th-thinking.” Bill cut in, placing a hand on Stan’s arm to stop him from walking. “What I was thinking was, what could have happened to hurt this guy so much he thought he had no way out.”

Stan stared at him, shocked beyond words, yet he felt the irritating need to explain himself to this man, as if his open stance and bright smile made him want to spew out truth after truth.

“I don't- it wasn't just one thing. It was everything. It was them, it was their whole world. And I was trapped in it, like a bird in a cage.”

Bill didn’t reply for a while, and the pair started to walk again.

“That penguin last night,” he asked, “is he one of them?”

“What, Henry?” Stan asked, a shrill laugh escaping his lips. “He  _ is  _ them.”

Bill breathed out a chuckle, looking down at his feet, almost laughing at the difference between his scuffed boots and Stan’s polished shoes. 

“Is he your boyfriend or something?” he tried to sound nonchalant, but the small smile on Stan’s face told him almost instantly he had failed.

“Worse, I’m afraid.” Stan replied, holding up his left hand to reveal the large, glinting diamond that adorned his fourth finger.

“Holy shit!” Bill exclaimed, grabbing Stan’s hand to inspect the ring as the shorter man chuckled in amusement. “You would’a sunk right t-to the bottom.”

Stan’s surprised laugh was clear and loud and Bill thought it was the best sound he’d ever heard in his whole god damn life as he chuckled along.

A passing steward cleared his throat at them, eyeing up Bill suspiciously, only to be glared at by Stan. Still, Bill had the decency to quieten down, swiftly dropping Stan’s hand.

They walked in silence again, except this time they welcomed it, both glad to be in the warmth of the sun and breath the fresh sea air. Still, Stan feared that this would be where they parted, so he nodded towards the book slung under Bill’s arm.

“What’s that?”

“Just some sketches.” Bill replied, now holding the book in front of him.

“May I?” Stan asked, although the question was rhetorical, as he had plucked the book from Bill’s hands and had perched on a nearby deck chair, flipping through the pages. Stan had expected Bill to be an okay artist, perhaps attaining the odd commision here and there, or sketching in his spare time, but he was not prepared for the sheer talent contained between the pages of the cheap sketchbook. Each well thumbed page contained an expressive little sliver of humanity: an old woman’s hands, a sleeping man, a father and daughter at the rail, each of the faces are luminous and alive. His book was a celebration of the human condition, each harnessed and cared for with his own two hands. Stan was enthralled, studying each piece carefully, drinking in each detail, each line, each smudge of charcoal. 

“These are amazing.” Stan said, his voice low in awe, looking up at Bill, who had sat down onto the deck chair next to his. “Truly.”

Bill blushed, a bashful smile on his lips. “Well, they duh-didn’t think much of em in ol’ Paree.”

“You’ve been to Paris?” Stan asked in surprise, turning the page to study the portrait of a grinning boy in a raincoat, eyes not too dissimilar to Bill’s.

“Only for a couple of months.”

Nodding as he turned the page, Stan gave a squeak as he came across a series of nude drawings. He should have been scandalised to be looking so freely at the nudes, but Stan was transfixed by the languid beauty Bill had created. The drawings were soulful, real, with expressive hands and eyes. They felt more like portraits than studies of the human form, almost uncomfortably intimate. Nevertheless, he blushed, raising the book as some strollers went by. Stan cleared his throat, ignoring Bill’s amused chuckle as he turned the page. 

“And these were all drawn from life?” He asked, trying to seem a little grown up.

“Yup. That's one of the great things about Paris. Lots of girls willing take their clothes off.”

Scoffing lowly, Stan studied one drawing in particular. The girl posed half in sunlight,   
half in shadow, her hands laying at her chin, one furled and one open like a   
flower, listless yet graceful.

“You like this woman.” Stan pointed out with a small smile. “You’ve used her several times.”

“She had beautiful hands.” Bill stated, moving to sit behind Stan on the deck chair, and Stan felt his ears burn as Bill leaned over him to point at her fingers.

With a smug grin, Stan turned his head to look at Bill. “I think you had a love affair with her.”

“No! No,” Bill exclaimed, barking out a laugh, “just with her hands.”

Stan’s smile softened, closing the book without looking away from Bill. “You have a gift Bill, really. You see people.”

“I see you.” 

If Stan was taken aback, you wouldn’t have been able to tell as he gave Bill a joking grin and pretended to flip his curls from his shoulders.

“And..?” He asked primly.

Bill’s gaze never faltered, although Stan’s smile did as Bill watched him.

“You wouldn’t’ve jumped.”

Stan didn’t realise how close they were until he was peering down at Bill’s lips, his curls brushing Bill’s brow.

Quickly remembering himself, Stan sprang up from the chair, clearing his throat and shoving the book back into Bill’s hands.

“Let’s keep walking.” Stan’s voice was tight and strained, and he barely waited for Bill before walking onto the deck, Bill jogging behind him to keep up. 

Stan hadn’t realised how long they had been strolling until he leant on the rail, looking at the muted peach sky melt into the sea. He was calmed almost instantly, even more so when Bill joined him, their elbows almost touching.

“What did you do before you were in Paris?” Stan asked quietly, afraid he would burst the little bubble of serenity they had forged.

“Well, I was logging back home, but that turned out to be too much w-work, so I went down to Los Angeles to the pier in Santa Monica. That's a swell place, they even have a _rollercoaster_. Anyway, I sketched p-portraits there for ten cents a piece.”

“Ten cents?!” Stan gasped in disbelief. He refused to believe Bill wouldn’t charge more given his talent.

His shock seemed to go right over Stan’s head, however, as he nodded proudly. “Uh-huh. It was great money, I could make a dollar a day, sometimes. But oh-only in summer. When it got cold, I decided to go to Paris and see what the real artists were doing.”

Stan sighed wistfully, gazing out at the dusty sky. “Why can't I be like you Bill? Just head out for the horizon whenever I feel like it.” With a grin, Stan turned to Bill, feeling the optimism and giddiness bubble in his stomach. “Say we'll go there, sometime, to that pier. Even if we only ever just talk about it.”

“Alright, we're going.” Bill affirmed, beaming as wide as Stan. “We'll drink cheap beer and go on the rollercoaster until we th-throw up and we'll ride horses on the beach- right in the surf- but you have to ride like a cowboy, none of that side-saddle stuff.”

Stan’s laugh was exuberant. “You’d have to teach me.”

“Alright. And I’ll tuh-teach you how to drink like a third class man man.” Bill continued, poorly mimicking a southern accent.”

“And…  _ spit  _ like a third class man.” Stan giggled, adopting a matching voice.

“What, they didn’t teach you that in finishing school?” Bill teased. “Here. I’ll show you.”

Stan watched, mortified, as Bill braced his hands against the deck and spat over the edge of the boat, watching it arc into the water. “Your turn.”

Making to argue, Stan opened his mouth but he was cut off by Bill’s pointed gaze. Heaving out a defeated sigh, Stan looked around, making sure nobody was watching him, before spitting weakly over the edge. 

“Nope.” Bill declared. “That was pitiful. Look you gotta-”

He took both of Stan’s hands and placed them against the railing and got him to mimic the way he was standing, making his arms straight and taut.

“Good, n-now you just,” Bill started to hack from the back of his throat, “then roll it up to you teeth- like thith,” he said through the spit and Stan copied him, gathering the spit in his mouth under Bill’s coaching. 

“Ready, then you-” Bill inhaled a large breath and spat, his back arching as he did so. Stan watched him and copied his movements, using his arms to push himself back as he spat out the loogie, feeling a strange rush of pride as Bill cheered him on. 

Exhilarated, Stan looked around the deck again, only to blanche as a group of women approached them. Bill continued to hack beside him, and Stan sharply elbowed him to get his attention. Noting Stan’s expression and the way he instantly poised himself, Bill prepared himself as Stan’s mother approached with Beverly Marsh and a group of hoity toity women Stan didn’t have the interest nor the energy to remember the names of.

“Mother,” Stan steeled, “I would like you to meet Bill Denbrough.”

Stan’s mother eyed Bill with poorly disguised disgust. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Bev merely grinned at Bill while Stan continued with introductions, motioning at the spit running down his chin.

Appalled, Bill hastily wiped his chin with the back of his hand while the group watched him disdainfully and Stan tried to smother his grin.

“Well, Bill, it sounds like you’re a good man to have around in a sticky situation-” Bev cajoled, but was cut off by the bugle announcing dinner.

“Shall we go dress, mother?” Stan asked, not waiting for a reply before steering his mother away, shooting Bill a farewell over his shoulder.

Bill gave him a small wave with a smile, unable to tear his eyes away. The group of women quickly dispersed until Bill was left alone with Bev.

“Son, do you have the faintest idea what you’ve got yourself into?”

“Not really.” Bill admitted with an unashamed laugh, his gaze shifting to the redhead stood in front of him, her hands planted firmly on her hips.

“Well, you're about to go into the snakepit. I hope you're ready. What are you planning to wear?”

Bill looked down at his clothes and back up at Bev, giving her a shrug.

“I thought as much. Come on, I reckon I got something that’ll fit ya.” she said, looping her arm through Bill’s and hauling him through the deck.

Not even thirty minutes later, Bev’s room was strewn with shirts and waistcoats and jackets, and she was having the time of her life, and she didn’t hesitate to tell him so as she tied his bow tie.

“I thought you and my pal’s son looked about the same size.” She grinned, helping Bill into the jacket, brushing off his shoulders as he straightened his lapels. “Well don’t you shine up like a new penny?”

And he did. It was a miracle what a decent wash and a pair of new shoes could do to a man. Still, despite his borrowed attire, the beating in Bill’s chest was hardly quelled. He felt as though he was walking right into the middle of a boxing ring: he had no idea what he was doing but he’d be damned if he didn’t come out alive.

* * *

Out on the deck, Mike Hanlon watched the sky blend seamlessly into the rolling waves, proudly reeling of statistics and figures to Mr. Keene.

“So you’ve not lit the last four boilers?” Keene asked, reading over his notes in his little pocket notebook.

Mike shook his head. “No, but we’re making excellent time.”

Keene was impatient as he shoved his book into his trouser pockets. “Captain, the press knows the size of Titanic, let them marvel at her speed too. We must give them something new to print. And the maiden voyage of Titanic must make headlines!”

Mike was hardly deterred. “I’d rather not properly push the engines until they’ve been properly run in.”

“Of course I leave it to your good offices to decide what's best, but what a glorious end to your last crossing if we get into New York Tuesday night and surprise them all.” Keene bolstered with a conniving smirk, slapping Mike brusquely on the back. “Retire with a bang, eh Mike?”

Mike curtly nodded, waiting until Keene had left before turning to his second in command.

“Light the last boilers. Full steam ahead.”


	4. 11th April 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aren’t we supposed to wish on them?”  
> Bill turned his head to look at Stan, and he almost gasped at how close they were. Just a couple inches more, and Bill would be able to lean down and kiss Stan, and from the way Stan’s eyes lingered on Bill’s lips, it seems the curly haired boy seemed to notice too.  
> “What would you wish for?” Bill whispered, watching as Stan’s eyes meandered back up to his own and his shoulders sagged.  
> “Something I can’t have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this is being uploaded like a full month later than i wanted to post it but , here we are. also, i start college next week so i don't know how often updates are going to be but i'll try my best to update regularly just bare with me pls! anyway, this is probably my favourite chapter so far, i hope you enjoy!! <3

Bill could almost feel his lungs rattle in his chest as he heaved in a huge breath, trying to get the beating of his heart under control. This was a bad idea. This was an awful, stupid, reckless idea and he was going to embarrass himself and then Stan would never talk to him again. At least that’s what Richie told him, and Bill was helpless but to agree. Even if he wasn’t convinced, the first class passengers seemed to be, as they gave him polite nods as he paced on the deck, trying to prolong his eventual attendance to what would probably be the worst dinner of his entire life. 

It was fifteen minutes until service when Bill decided to pull himself together and he strode towards the dining hall before he could stop himself and run away, hoping to whatever God there was that Stan was already there and mingling. God, however, wasn’t so kind, as when he made his way down the stairs, he saw no sign of the other man, and he resigned to leaning against the wall to try and keep himself from falling over.

Despite being a fan of neither pomp nor splendour, Bill had to admit that the first class deck was breathtaking, and for a moment, as he looked down at his shiny shoes and adjusted his pearl cufflinks, Bill almost felt as if he belonged. Stan obviously did, with his great posture and his immaculate hair and his pristine clothing and his perfect smile and-

No. No, he wouldn’t. Bill wasn’t going to let his silly crush get in the way of getting through this dinner, and getting through it without any cause for complaint from any of the stiffs Stan calles his peers. No, he was going to do this properly and he was going to do this right.

Standing up straight, Bill peered at the old man stood next to him, his wife on his arm, joined in conversation by another couple, and he mimicked his stature, straightening his back, folding one arm behind his back and holding the other vertically across his body. 

He was so engaged in mimicking the man’s actions that he almost missed the dulcet tones of Henry Bowers as he passed Bill without so much as a second glance, Stan’s mother on his arm, giggling as Henry whispered into her ear. A slimy sense of unease settled over Bill’s shoulders, almost causing his perfect posture to break, but it quickly evaporated as he turned towards the stairs. Bill would muse everyday after that he saw an angel that night, and Bill was absolutely convinced as Stan descended the stairs, his curls illuminated by the yellow wash from the chandelier, his figure hugged by a black silk shirt and burgundy trousers, his smile radiant as he clapped eyes on Bill. 

Bill filled his lungs again, devoid of oxygen for a completely different reason than before as Stan stood in front of Bill on the final step, holding out his hand for Bill to take, and Bill did so happily, bringing Stan’s knuckles up to his lips to brush his lips over them, unable to resist the urge to press a second peck to the freckle on Stan’s first knuckle, causing him to flush almost the same colour of his pants. Maybe it was the soft light, or maybe it was the fact tonight was about being somebody that he wasn’t, but Bill thought Stan was the most beautiful sight he’d ever saw, and he thought he must be dreaming as Stan couldn’t take his eyes off him, but as soon as an arm was wrapped snugly around his own, Bill knew this was real.

“You scrub up nicely. For an artist, I mean.” Stan jibed, beaming up at Bill as they walked towards the dining hall.

Bill chuckled, his heart bursting in his chest as he felt Stan’s arm tighten around his own. “Yuh-you don’t look so bad yourself. For a rich boy, I mean.”

Stan dug his shoulder into Bill’s side, causing the taller man to let out a yelp that was apparently a lot louder than he thought it was, as multiple heads turned to look at the pair. Stan looked up at Bill, and Bill looked down at Stan, and the pair burst into snickers and giggles, quickly sobering themselves up as they approached the entrance, and Henry Bowers.

“Henry,” Stan said through the last of his giggles, placing an hand on his fiance’s arm. “Surely you remember Mr Denbrough?”

As Henry turned around, his eyebrows shot up as he took in the sight of Bill, and despite being taller, Bill felt the need to stand up straighter under the other man’s eye.

“I didn’t recognise you there, Denbrough.” Henry admitted, and Bill was proud to notice that he even sounded caught of guard. “You could almost pass for a gentleman.”

There he was. Bill was about to bite back a reply when he was approached by Bev, and he instantly softened, holding out his other arm for the red haired woman to take.

“Aint nothing to it is there Bill?” she chided quietly as the three of them entered the dining hall, trying not to stand on anybody’s toes as they started to make their way through the crowded room.

“Yeah you just dress like a p-penguin and keep your nose up.” Bill rolled his eyes and Bev glared up at him.

“The only thing these people care about is money, so just act like you’ve got a damn lot of it and you’re in the club.” And with that, Bev moved through the crowd, leaving Bill once again alone with Stan.

As they entered the swirling throng, Stan leaned in close to Bill, pointing people out to him, but Bill wasn’t listening, instead looking fondly down at Stan as he reeled off names, completely in his element. “And that’s John Jacob Astor and his wife Madelaine.” Stan said as he pointed at the man Henry was talking to. “He’s by far the richest man on the ship. His little wife over there is my age and in a delicate condition. Quite the scandal.” Stan was whispering now as they made their way over, and Astor smiled brightly at Stan.

“Stan!” he greeted with open arms, and Stan smiled politely back.

“J.J, Madelaine, I’d like to introduce you to Bill Denbrough.”

The man shook Bill’s hand enthusiastically, never once doubting that this was where Bill belonged.

“Say,” Astor said, “you don’t happen to be of the Boston Denbroughs, do you?”

Bill shook his head. “No, the Wisconsin Denbroughs, actually.”

Astor nodded and hummed as if he’d heard of them, offering Bill a cigarette which he declined, and the pair were on their way, allowing Bill to huff out a sigh of relief as they approached their table.

Pride swelled in Stan’s chest as he watched Bill slip seamlessly into conversation with Ben Hanscom, never faltering despite his obvious nerves, and Stan even allowed himself to ghost a hand over Bill’s as Bill pulled out his chair for him, shooting him a surreptitious wink that Stan was pleased to say had the taller man flushing pink. So far, Bill had even managed to deflect Henry’s sugar coated barbs, answering humorously, but it wasn’t Henry he should’ve been worried about. Dinner hadn’t even begun before Stan’s mother found a way to bring him down a few notches.

“So, Mr. Denbrough,” she started, and Stan’s nails instantly dug into the palms of his hands. “Tell us of the accommodation in steerage. I hear it’s quite good aboard this ship.” She turned to the rest of the table. “Bill here is joining us from third class. He was some assistance to my son last night.”

As if sensing Stan’s annoyance, Bill shot him a small smile before turning to his mother, a painfully polite smile stretched across his face. “The best I’ve seen ma’am. Hardly any rats.”

Stan hid his grin in his glass as his mother blanched, but he quickly sent a quick kick to Bill’s leg under the table. Bill’s eyes shot up to Stan, and Stan quickly motioned for him to take his napkin off his plate as the waiters approached. 

A comfortable hush fell over the table as their food was served and glasses were refilled. 

“Use your cutlery from the outside in.” Bev whispered from her place beside him as his food was placed in front of him, and Bill gratefully nodded.

“How do you take your caviar, sir?” asked a server from beside him, but Henry answered before he could.

“Just a dash of lemon.” He instructed the waiter before turning to Bill with a smarmy smile. “It improves the flavour with champagne.”

His grin didn’t last long, however, as Bill moved his hand up to stop the server from putting the caviar on his plate, earning a scowl from Henry and a glare from Stan’s mother. “None for me, thanks. I never did like it much.”

Bev sneaked a glance at Stan, only to find him biting back a smile and she smiled to herself, watching as Bill shot him a wink over his champagne flute. The first course was relatively uneventful, everyone at the table making polite chit chat as they ate, enjoying the champagne and the company, and Bill felt himself gowing more confident as the night went on.

Salad was served, and Bill picked up a fork, the countless pieces of cutlery making his head spin. While he was deliberating if he had even chosen the right fork at all, a curt cough from his side made his eyes whip up to Stan. As if he had sensed Bill’s confusion, Stan made a show of picking up his own fork, flashing it to Bill as he did so. It was smaller than the one that Bill had picked out himself, and through Stan’s silent guidance, Bill picked up the correct fork and speared a piece of lettuce with it, only to look up and find Henry eyeing him suspiciously.

“And where exactly do you live?” Asked Stan’s mother as the conversation died down, and Bill instantly felt five pairs of curious eyes fall upon him. Swallowing the food that was in his mouth and placing his fork down on his plate, Bill took a gulp of champagne before speaking.

“Right now, my address is the RMS Titanic. After th-that, I’m on God’s good graces.” He replied seamlessly, and Ben smiled back at him encouragingly.

“You find that sort of rootless existence appealing do you?” She asked, causing Stan gasp, mortified.

“Mother!” Stan tried to chastise, but Bill only chuckled, lightly nudging Stan’s foot under the table to try and tell him to drop it.

“Well yes ma’am I do. I mean, I’ve got everything I need with me. I’ve got the air in my lungs and a few blank sheets of paper, and I love waking up in the morning and not knowing what’s coming next. Just the other day I was living under a bridge and now I’m on board the greatest ship in the world drinking champagne with you fine folk. 

“I reckon life’s a gift, and you never know what hand you’re gonna get dealt next. You’ve got to learn to to take life as it comes at you, and… and how to make it count.”

Bev raised her glass in a salute. “Well said Bill.”

Bill nodded at her in thanks, shooting Ben a grin at his enthusiastic ‘here here!’ and steeled himself for the incoming blow from Stan’s mother or fiance, but the younger man shocked him again. Looking at Bill, an easy smile gracing his face, Stan raised his own glass. “To making it count.”

For a moment, Bill felt like they were the only people in the room, and he couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from Stan’s, but the sound of the toast being repeated brought him tumbling back down to earth, and he sheepishly ducked his head and took a drink from his own glass, ignoring the way Stan’s mother’s eyes bore into the side of his head.

She didn’t seem to relent, and decided to press him further, trying to gauge some, any reaction from him. “And how is it you have the means to travel, Mr Denbrough?”

“I work my way from place to place,” Bill replied honestly. “But I won my ticket aboard titanic here with a lucky hand at poker.”

“Very lucky indeed.” agreed Ben.

“Nonsense.” Henry cut in. “A real man makes his own luck, Hanscom.”

If anybody thought any different, nobody said so, and Bill was thankful that Stan’s mother had apparently grown bored of trying to embarrass him, resigning to mindless chatter about somebody Bill had no desire to hear about. The rest of the dinner was spent laughing at Bev’s jokes and sneaking looks at Stan, and Bill found himself wanting to kiss away the cream that was left behind on the corner of Stan’s mouth as he ate his dessert.

After the plates were cleared away, Stan leant over to Bill, flooding him with the scent of vanilla and salt, and spoke lowly to him. “Next it’ll be brandies in the smoking room.”

As if on cue, Henry stood from the table, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket, asking the gentlemen at the table if they’d care to join him for a brandy.

Bill chuckled, and so did Stan, who leant even closer into Bill’s space to whisper, “Now they retreat into a cloud of smoke and congratulate themselves for being masters at the universe.”

Bill snorted, causing Henry to turn and look at him. “Joining us, Denbrough? Or would you prefer to stay out here with the women?”

In all honesty, Bill would, but he eyed the clock on the wall. “Nah, I think it’s bout time I headed back.”   
“Probably best.” Henry sneered before retreated into the smoking room, and Bill wanted to grab a bread roll and lob it at the back of his head. 

“Do you really have to go?” Stan asked quietly from his side, and if Bill didn’t know any better, he’d say that Stan sounded almost sad.

Bill smiled apologetically as he stood from his seat. “Time to turn my carriage back into a pumpkin.”

And with that, Bill took Stan’s hand and planted a kiss over the same freckle before nodding at Bev and his mother and swiftly made an exit, ignoring Andrea Uris’s scowl, and Stan stared up at him in confusion as he felt something being slipped into his palm.

Stan watched as Bill left, frowning as he felt whatever Bill had slipped into his palm poke against his skin. Waiting for his mother to return to her conversation with Bev, Stan looked to make sure nobody was watching before opening the paper, his heart racing as he read Bill’s messy scrawl.

_ Make it count. Meet me by the clock. -BD _

Biting down the grin that threatened to bloom, Stan waited five more minutes before making his excuses and leaving the table, trying not to break out into a run as he exited the hall and made his way towards the staircase, climbing them two at a time, finally allowing himself to beam as he found Bill staring at the clock on the landing. Stan gently placed his hand on Bill’s upper arm, watching the man’s face turn from that of shock to glee as he drank Stan in. 

Stan tried not to laugh giddily as Bill took the hand that was on his arm in his own, pulling Stan closer so he could speak softly. “Wanna go to a real party?

 

* * *

 

The third class dining hall was almost stifling, and Stan resisted the urge to undo the top button of his shirt as he sat at one of the dining tables that had been pushed to the side of the room, gingerly sipping a pint of warm beer. Despite sticking out like a sore thumb, Stan could honestly say he’d had more fun in the short minutes he’d spent in this makeshift dancehall than he has done in years. The whole deck was crowded and alive with wild laughter and raucous carrying on. In the corner, a band honked out lively stomping music on the fiddle, accordion and tambourine while people danced, smoked, and even brawled.

Stan quickly finished his beer, and before he could even put his glass down, Richie was already handing him a pint of stout, trying his best not to drop it as Eddie clung to his back like a koala. Stan took it with a laugh and hoisted it, grinning as Richie did the same and almost fell under Eddie’s weight. He was, for the first time in a while, content to sit back and watch, not at all concerned with propriety and protocol as he sipped his pint with one hand and slapped his hand against his thigh in applause as the band finished their song. 

He watched as Bill finished his dance with the young girl Stan had seen him with the day before, and he watched fondly as he bowed at her before giving her a final spin. Filled to the brim with dutch courage, Stan shakily stood from his seat and made his way over, unable to stop himself from eyeing Bill’s chest, displayed from undoing the first few buttons of his shirt.

“May I cut in, miss?” Stan asked the young girl, chuckling lightly as she giggled at Stan’s formality, before whining at the prospect of losing another dance with Bill.

“Duh-don’t worry.” Bill smiled down at the girl before leaning in like he was going to tell her a secret. “You’re still my best girl.”

This seemed to be enough for the young girl, as she scurried off with a giggle, leaving Stan and Bill alone and facing each other. Stan felt his hand tremble as Bill took it in his own, and he swallowed a squeak as Bill snaked an arm around his waist and pulled him flush against him, and Stan could do nothing but look at Bill.

“I don’t know the steps.” Stan whispered, and he could feel Bill’s soft breaths brush over his cheeks.

Bill only grinned, gripping Stan harder as the music started up again and he started to move them. “Just follow me. Don’t think.”

And with that Bill was pulling Stan across the floor, and Stan felt like he was flying as Bill span them and moved them in time to the reel the band was playing, and he thought his face would cramp up with the force of his smile.

“Wait! Wait, stop.” Stan panted through laughs as they neared the edge of the dancefloor, and Bill looked down at him concerned, but Stan only pulled off his shoes before falling back into Bill’s arms and the pair span off into the fray.

They came out sweaty and panting, Bill with his arm wrapped around Stan’s waist to keep him upright as he staggered from dizziness, and the pair made their way over to where Eddie and Richie were sat. Eddie eyed them smugly as Richie pushed two pints towards them. Stan could’ve cried in relief, his mouth dry, and he chugged the pint back, not stopping or putting it down until it was empty, wiping away the foam on his top lip as he did so. Bill, Richie and Eddie looked at him in a mix of amusement and shock.

“What?” Stan asked incredulously. “You think a first class guy can’t drink?”

Richie barked out a laugh and raised his own pint. “I’ll drink to that, Stanny.”

Stan smiled and leant back against Bill, looking up at him as he felt his gaze buring the side of his head.

“Is everything okay?” Stan asked softly, turning so that he was face to face with Bill.

“You- You’ve got a bit of…” He trailed off, running his thumb over Stan’s top lip, causing the younger man’s breath to catch in his throat. “Bit of foam.”

Stan smiled up at Bill before turning around and settling back into his side, his cheeks burning as he listened to Eddie curse out a cackling Richie in Italian.

Patrick Hocksetter stood at the door, watching the pair before turning quickly on his heel and striding back up to the first class deck.

 

The stars blazed overhead, the sky so clear they could see the Milky Way blink down at them as Stan and Bill walked along the row of lifeboats, Bill warm from the beer and Stan warm from Bill’s coat, as they sang off key to the sky, taking breaks in between verses to laugh at each other when they fumbled over the words. Stan sighed contentedly as they walked out along the deck, but it quickly turned to one of disdain as they approached the first class entrance. They don’t go in straight away, and Stan’s grateful that Bill doesn’t seem like he’s going to rush him, the pair of them content to linger in each other’s company.

Stan leant against a davit, staring longingly at the cosmos. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? So endless…”

Bill followed as Stan moved to lean against the railing, the pair standing elbow to elbow, looking at the sky.

“They’re such small people, Bill. My crowd.” Stan continued, his voice light but slurred from the alcohol. “They think they’re giants on the earth. They live in this tiny champagne bubble and one day- one day it’s just going to burst.”

Bill moved his hand closer, his fingers brushing Stan’s. It was the lightest touch imaginable, barely even a touch at all, but all either of them could feel was that one square inch of touching skin.

“I think they made a mistake.” Bill said after a minute or two of silence, causing Stan to huff out a laugh and cock an eyebrow.

“A mistake?” Stan reiterated.

“Uh huh. You got mailed to the wrong address.”

Stan barked out a laugh, leaning further into Bill as he hooked their little fingers together. “I guess I did.”

Stan’s eyes went back up to the sky, soaking everything in. Silver swept across the sky, causing Stan to gasp and point, forcing Bill to look up too. “A shooting star!”

“My father used to say that whenever you saw one, it was a soul going to heaven.” Bill spoke lowly, the sentiment making Stan’s heart swell.

“I like that.” He said honestly. “Aren’t we supposed to wish on them?”

Bill turned his head to look at Stan, and he almost gasped at how close they were. Just a couple inches more, and Bill would be able to lean down and kiss Stan, and from the way Stan’s eyes lingered on Bill’s lips, it seems the curly haired boy seemed to notice too. 

“What would you wish for?” Bill whispered, watching as Stan’s eyes meandered back up to his own and his shoulders sagged.

“Something I can’t have.”

Ice suddenly engulfed Bill as Stan pulled his hand away, moving away from the railing with a sad smile, opening the door to the first class deck. Stan seemed to hesitate before stepping through the threshold, giving Bill a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Goodnight Bill. And thank you.”

And with that, Stanley Uris was gone, leaving Bill alone with his thoughts, the ghost of Stan’s hand in his own, and the stars. It wasn’t until Bill was lying under the thin sheets of his bottom bunk that he realised that Stanley still had his coat, and for some reason, the thought sent a warm thrill through him, and he fell soundly to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on tumblr @ d-nbroughs !


	5. 11th-12th April 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Brick by brick, little by little, Stan started to build back up the fortress surrounding his heart, stronger than before. He had to focus on Henry and the money. He had to keep up appearances. He had to be the person he tried so desperately not to be. Most importantly, he had to forget about Bill. He had to keep his distance, dispel him from his thoughts and kick him out of his heart. More importantly, he couldn’t let Bill get back in.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i'll try to update regularly!  
> also me: doesn't update for 2 months
> 
> this chapter is just. idk. it's not the most plot filled but i think it's pretty important. no bill in this one but he'll be back soon !!

The world had never stopped for Stanley Uris. Back home, each day was exactly the same, a carbon copy of the one just passed, the only difference being the colour of his fitted slacks or he way they served the potatoes at dinner. Nothing ever gave, his schedule was never strayed from, not even for a minute, and no matter how many parties he had attended, or how much he tried to dig his nails into even a shred of spontaneity, he always went to bed at the same time, and woke up the next day at the same hour, took the same breakfast, and wished that he was able to do something for himself.

But, of course, that was all before he had attempted to throw himself off the side of a boat, before he had heartily gulped down his first ever pint of stout, and that was definitely before he went to sleep dreaming of auburn hair and broad shoulders and blue eyes. Bill Denbrough had squeezed through one of the tiny gaps in Stan’s fortified walls and took to them with a sledgehammer, smashing them to pieces with a flash of that lopsided grin, leaving them crumbling around Stan’s feet. But in the aftermath of the sudden destruction, as the dust of his destroyed walls and barriers settles around Stan’s heart, he couldn’t find it in him to care, and now that they’re down, Stan thinks that, maybe, he doesn’t want to build them back up, either.

The feeling doesn’t last long, however. 

Still buzzed on champagne and Bill, Stan is in no rush to get back to his rooms. His mother would be sound asleep by this point, and Henry would still be bragging to his stiff friends in their stiff suits about his half imagined prowess, so Stan strolled along the corridors, humming to himself as he wrapped Bill’s coat tighter around his shoulders, breathing in cigarette smoke and mint. 

Trudy was asleep on one of the plush leather armchairs when Stan entered the room. He would’ve been content to leave her there, but the position didn’t look comfortable at all. With a gentle hand, he gave her shoulder a shake, and she shot upright, almost knocking Stan over in the process.

“Mr Uris! I expected you back much earlier, I’m so sorry I-” she rambled, face flustered and eyes wide, and Stan took her hand in his to get her to stop talking.

“Trudy, it’s quite alright, though I think it’s time you got some rest.”

Trudy blinked back at him, eyeing up the black jacket that was so obviously not Henry’s hugging his figure, but she didn’t say anything about it. “But you’re not dressed for bed-” she tried to excuse, but Stan sharply shook his head and huffed out a laugh.

“I think I can manage by myself for one night. Please, Trudy, I insist. Go to bed.”

If she had any more complains about the idea, she thankfully kept them to herself, and with a thank you and a nod of her head, Stan was left to luxuriate in the quiet and the dying heat of the fire.

He folded his clothes neatly as he stripped them off and lined up his shoes by his wardrobe, the alcohol and the late hour finally settling over his body like a thick down blanket, making him feel heavy and sated. Going to pull out his sleep clothes from their designated drawer, Stan decided against it, shutting the drawer closed, and instead, wrapped himself in Bill’s coat, carefully doing up the buttons so that he was fully engulfed in the dark cloth of the dinner jacket. The sleeves were too long for his arms, and he let them hang over his fingers as he climbed into bed, and he fell asleep freckled cheeks and ink stained fingers. 

He didn’t even hear Henry slam the door shut.

 

* * *

Stan should’ve known his mood wouldn’t last. Trudy had hastily woken him a little before seven, informing him that Henry had requested that Stan joined him for breakfast on the promenade. Cursing, Stan jumped out of bed and almost ripped the jacket off his body.

“Shit shit shit shit.” he spat as he threw open his drawers and pulled out the first shirt he could find and put it on, his fingers shaking as he did up the buttons. The soft blue cotton felt like sandpaper against his skin as Trudy handed him a plain pair of khaki trousers, foregoing a belt or braces and tying up his shoes. 

Stan all but ran to the promenade deck, knowing that Henry would be waiting for him, and if there was one thing Henry didn’t like, it was to be kept waiting. Something rancid and sour welled in the back of Stan’s mouth at the thought of his fiance, and he tried to dismiss it as the last remnants of the alcohol he’d drank the night previous making themselves known, but he knew otherwise. It was slowly becoming clearer and clearer as the journey went on that Stan could barely stand the thought of Henry Bowers, and he silently commended his past self for putting up with him for so long. Still, Stan was to be married to him, and that was that. As much as he wanted to, Stan decided against riling his betrothed up for riling up’s sake. He would be civil, be polite, and be doting, and as soon as he was done, he would wind away the hours on the lower class deck. Maybe Bill would teach him a card game or tell him more about Paris. Stan didn’t mind what they did as long as he was doing it with Bill. He tried very hard to remind himself of this as he sat down opposite Henry at the breakfast table.

Henry barely looked up as Stan sat down, not that Stan minded. The soft morning sun was warm on Stan’s back, and he allowed the gentle heat to relax the tense muscles in his shoulders as he happily sipped away at his coffee, distracting himself lest he be forced to make conversation with Henry, but his fiance seemed too engrossed in the morning paper for Stan to try anyway.

“I thought you’d come to me last night.” Henry finally piped up as Stan finished his drink, his eyes never wandering from the newspaper.

“I was tired.” Stan stated, allowing the waiter on hand to refill his china cup.

“Yes, I’m sure your excursions below deck were enough to tire you out.”

Stan dropped his cup onto his saucer with a disjointed clack, huffing out a mirthless laugh. “So I take it you had that undertaker of a manservant follow me then.”

“You will never behave like that again, Stanley. Do you understand me?” Henry’s eyes were ice boring into Stan, his voice unnervingly steady and hard.

“I’m not some foreman in your mills that you can command,” Stan scoffed, pushing up from the table. “I’m your fiance--”

Henry exploded, storming up from his seat and knocking all the china from the table, the force of it pushing stan back onto his chair. In one swift movement, Henry was round the other side of the table, his hands clutching the arms of Stan’s chair in a white knuckled grip, his thunderous face red and seething, a mere inch from Stan’s own.

“Yes! You are! And my husband in practice if not in law. You will honour me as a husband should, do you understand? You will not gallivant around with some street urchin and wear his clothes to bed like some common whore! You will not make a fool of me Stanley do you understand me?”

Henry’s voice was deafening and cutting, spit flying from his lips as his cheeks flared in rage, and for the first time since they met, Stanley was afraid of him, afraid of what he could do. He stiffened at the mention of Bill, of Henry going anywhere near Bill, doing something to Bill…

Face pale and tears welling in his eyes, tears he wished weren’t there, Stan nodded, his eyes catching sight of Trudy in the doorway. Henry’s gaze followed, and he quickly retreated, sweeping a hand through his overly gelled hair before barging out of the door to God knows where. 

Stan immediately fell to his knees beside the chair, letting the tears fall as he picked up pieces of broken china and stray cutlery from the floor, barely noticing when Trudy knelt down next to him, the tears too thick in his eyes to allow him to see anything.

“I’m so sorry Trudy. We- we had an accident...” Stan tried to sound cheery, but the thickness in his throat made it impossible.

“That’s alright, sir.” Trudy replied softly, taking the pieces of a broken cup from Stan’s hands. 

Sitting back on his haunches, Stan let himself cry.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ll not see that boy again, Stanley, do you understand me?” Andrea Uris commanded. It was not the first time he had been told this today, but he certainly wished it was going to be the last. Stanley Uris did not like being told what to do, but in his heart of hearts he knew that he had to stop seeing Bill, if not for his own sake but for Bill’s. His mind wished that the selfish part of his heart would win eventually.

“Oh stop it mother, you’ll give yourself a nosebleed.” Stan deadpanned as he pulled his mother’s corset strings tighter, half hoping that the tightness of the corset would shut her up, half hoping it would kill her.

It seemed neither worked, as she abruptly pulled away and stalked over to the door, dismissing the present staff before slamming it shut, and locking it with an audible clack.

Andrea reeled in on him, and Stanley, in the middle of buttoning up his lilac satin shirt, stopped. 

“This is not a game, Stanley!” she screeched before catching herself and lowering her voice. “Our situation is a precarious one. You  _ know  _ all the money’s gone.”

Stan sighed, running a hand through his curls. “Of course I know it’s gone. You remind me every day.”   
His mother crossed the room and grabbed his hands, artificial sweetness oozing from her lips. “Your father left us with nothing but a string of bad debts hidden by a good name. This is the only card we have left to play.”

Stan had no interest in her false affection. She didn’t care if he was happy, he knew that, but he couldn’t blame her either. It was so ingrained into her being to out the money first that Stan was sure she thought of that and nothing else. With a sigh, he turned her back around and pulled again on her corset strings, trying not to indulge the sick thrum of amusement that ran through him at her breathless gasp, and he half tuned her out as she continued talking. “I don’t understand you, Stanley. This is a fine match with Henry, and it will insure our survival.”

“How can you put this on my shoulders?” Stan snapped, half hurt and half lost. “How are you so willing to put the weight of this family solely upon me, and for what? Do I not get a say in my own future, mother? Do I not get a say in my own happiness?”   
Andrea turned around and it finally clicked in Stan’s head. It wasn’t greed in his mother’s eyes, nor was it complacency. It was fear, cold and naked and raw, and for a second, Stan almost threw all propriety to the wind and hugged her. 

“Do you want to see me working as a seamstress Stanley? Is that what you want?” His mother’s voice was a hair short of hysterical, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. “Do you want to see our fine things sold at auction, our memories gone and buried with your father? How could you be so selfish?”

As the words left Andrea Uris’s mouth, Stan took the image of Bill, pale skin glowing in the starlight and smile wide, lips red and eyes as clear as the sea they were sailing on, and locked it away in the deep recesses of his heart, alongside the memories of his father and his life before his engagement. Damn him for being such a fool, for allowing himself to believe he could actually have this. Stan could have anything he wanted, money, jewels, estates- all he had to do ask and someone, anyone would give them to him. But Bill was never his to begin with, could never be his, no matter how much he asked or begged.

“It’s so unfair.” he whispered, half to himself, and half to the world.

“Of course it’s unfair.” Andrea said, her voice now as cold and sharp as steel, the tears totally forgotten. “We’re Uris’s. Our choices are never easy.”

As he pulled the corset tighter, brick by brick, little by little, Stan started to build back up the fortress surrounding his heart, stronger than before. He had to focus on Henry and the money. He had to keep up appearances. He had to be the person he tried so desperately not to be. Most importantly, he had to forget about Bill. He had to keep his distance, dispel him from his thoughts and kick him out of his heart. More importantly, he couldn’t let Bill get back in.

**Author's Note:**

> come and say hi on tumblr @ d-nbroughs


End file.
